Danse De La Folie

by Sherwood Smith

  As Mount Street was not quite a mile away, he decided to stretch his legs in a walk. The city was confining enough as it was; he needed air, even city air, and to be moving. Perhaps it would clear his head. At least he could rehearse what to say.

  He was halfway to his destination when the storm broke. He stepped into a public house and drank a tankard of cool ale while the violent downpour got rid of the worst of the heat, then he set out again the moment it began to break.

  When he reached Mount Street, the children in the parish workhouse were poking their heads out an upper window, watching the lightning as the storm moved away. St. Tarval had almost reached the Bouldestons’ house when the familiar barouche rolled up, disclosing a parcel of angry females. Lucasta tumbled out, twitching her bonnet straight. “See if I ever go with you again, Lucretia,” she declared, and ran up the stairs into the house.

  Lucretia began to follow after, leading Cassandra Kittredge, whom St. Tarval had not seen for several years. The cousins started up the steps as the maid labored to unload the sodden barouche. He ran, catching up before the two young ladies could vanish into the house.

  When she heard his step, Lucretia whirled around, her mouth popping open. Was she dismayed to see him? But she smiled and simpered, saying, “Cassie, dear, I believe you have been introduced to my—”

  He could not bear to hear the word spoken, and interrupted. “I beg pardon, but I just came from Brook Street. I gather you left my sister there?”

  Lucretia’s gaze flickered, and once again St. Tarval detected dismay. Then Lucretia said airily, “I believe she is there, yes. Come, Cassie, let us shift our clothing. Carlisle, you will perceive that the rain caught us. You would not wish us to catch our deaths, would you?” she asked sweetly, and before he could answer, she whisked herself in and shut the door.

  He was tempted to rap the knocker, except what would he say? This was clearly the wrong time to demand a conversation.

  So he made his way back to Brook Street, his pace far quicker than previously. He ignored the intermittent rain, for the more he considered Lucretia’s response, the more definite he was that something was amiss.

  When he reached Brook Street, it was to discover Mr. Devereaux about to leave, his sister following with a mutinous expression. She stood squarely in the doorway, hands on her hips, as she declared, “I think Mama is horrid, not letting me attend the ball in my own grandmother’s house...” she began.

  St. Tarval interrupted a lady for the second time that day. Touching his hat, he said, “I beg pardon, but if I could see my sister...”

  Miss Bess stared at him, her complaint forgotten. “She has been gone this age, to Richmond Park!” A glance upward, and her expression changed. “I hope they are not caught in the downpour. Amelia and I were agreed that we would not go out today for a million pounds... .”

  Mr. Devereaux now interrupted his sister, coming quickly into the light shining from the doorway, his expression one of concern. “They might still be on the road.”

  “Except that I have just come from Mount Street, and I was told they were here.” St. Tarval took a few hasty steps toward the corner, his intent to look for a hackney.

  Mr. Devereaux caught up, and said, “Take mine.”

  St. Tarval turned around. “I beg pardon?”

  Mr. Devereaux had been thinking rapidly. If he went in search of the missing ladies, it would cause exactly the sort of talk everyone would wish to avoid. But a brother? “Take my curricle, St. Tarval. The horses are ready for a run. You will have moonlight to drive by, I believe.” He pointed. “There is a coat in the trunk, in case it rains again.”

  The marquess did not know Devereaux except as the target of Lucretia’s attentions, and as one of his sister’s many dancing partners. He had once hazarded a guess that this was the one Kit preferred, not from anything she said, it was more the way she smiled when they were dancing. But then Kit was friendly to everybody.

  This was not the time to sort out the intricacies of these connections. Relief—gratitude—St. Tarval did not waste time on a protest, but closed with the offer, and was soon off.

  He was a good driver, but he was not used to this type of sporting vehicle, nor the sort of high-bred, high-fed pair that only very wealthy men could afford. For a time it was all he could do to hold them in hand, especially as it was by then full dark. However, he soon attained the road, and the moonlight was enough to give him light.

  He dropped his hands, and the pair sprang into a gallop.

  They had slowed to a more sedate pace as he scanned continually; he was beginning to wonder if he had come on a fool’s errand when he heard Kitty’s voice cry out his name.

  And there they were, standing by the side of the road, both soaked to the skin. Clarissa looked up at him with such mute appeal, and gratitude, that for a time he could not look away.

  “Here, you get in first,” Kitty said in a breathless voice, breaking the spell. “I have the greatest dislike of being in the middle.”

  “What happened?” he asked, when both had climbed into the curricle.

  He already suspected some mystery here, but he was sure of it in the way Kitty stole a look at Clarissa, who said in her calmest voice, “The storm struck, and it seemed we were missed in the haste of the departure.”

  “We shall be back in a trice,” he said as he carefully guided the pair in a turn. “I hope you will not catch a chill.”

  “In summer?” Kitty scoffed. “We are not such poor creatures as that!”

  “Nevertheless, I do not believe Devereaux will object if you two share this greatcoat,” he said, shrugging it off. “It is capacious, as you see, and warm as well.”

  Clarissa and Kitty had climbed in side by side. They shrugged the coat around them, and the curricle began moving again.

  Kitty was still struggling to come to terms with the long glance she had seen between her brother and Clarissa. A blinding new idea came to her, for it was clear even in the moonlight that Cupid’s darts had gone in both directions, and furthermore, if she hazarded a guess, this was not Cupid’s first visit.

  What could she do?

  Nothing. They were both proud, and private, and though Clarissa had rid herself of her entanglement, her brother was still bound to Lucretia. Do not force him to choose between you, Clarissa had said. Kitty wondered if this statement was also true for the both of them. She wanted to speak—oh, how badly!—but she could see that it would be a mistake.

  And so she gazed determinedly out at the countryside, over which the moonlight cast a mysterious silvery glow.

  Clarissa was, for once, too stunned to think. She clutched at her side of the greatcoat, the fabric under her hand heavy and a little rough. It was a thick garment, but not too thick to entirely mask the sensations of the marquess wedged against her side. She had huddled into the warmth that the marquess had made, and fancied that his own warmth, and not her own, enveloped her still; she wished they might never reach London, that they could travel like this, on and on, forever.

  She was aware of the deep fremitus of his voice before she heard the words, and when she recognized them, her nerves thrilled.

  “…and I have felt

  A presence that disturbs me with joy

  Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime

  Of something far more deeply interfused,

  Whose dwelling is in the light of setting suns…”

  He spoke so softly one might not have heard it over the thunder of hooves, or the creak and swing of the curricle. But she did hear it, and so she responded,

  “...Therefore I am still

  A Lover of the meadows and the woods,

  And mountains, and of all that we behold

  From this green earth…”

  They traded verses, sometimes groping for words, for neither had set out to memorize it, but each had read it so many times they remembered most.

  The forgotten words caused laughter, for there was no competition, no striving to imp
ress. Kitty sat silently, smiling at the pleasure she heard in their two voices, so dear. Why did I not see it? she thought. And with less satisfaction, What can be done?

  The conversation might have been taking place during a spring day’s picnic, so full of hilarity and pleasure it was. Kitty took part enough so that the other two might not feel self-conscious, but by the time they reached Brook Street at last, she was troubled indeed. She had desired justice before, but now she had added reason.

  The door opened as they drove up, and Mr. Devereaux leaped down the steps to help the ladies descend. Clarissa he let go with only a polite word, but Kitty, who hesitated without being aware, her smile a little shy, her gaze full of question, he detained long enough to say, “Are you much chilled?”

  “I am fine. It is only rain,” she said a little breathlessly, blushing as she gazed up into his face. She was only aware of her sodden hat and her hair straggling down, and not of the fine glow in her cheeks, or the sweet expression of her eyes; she looked into his face, and did not see handsomeness, but the concern in his gaze, the softened mouth. Her nerves tingled.

  “Then I will wish you good night,” he said, breaking the spell. “And I will also, if I may, request the honor of a dance at the masquerade ball in Cavendish Square?”

  Kitty curtseyed, oblivious to the gown plastered to her form, then she sped inside, her soft “Good night,” floating behind.

  As St. Tarval held out the reins to Mr. Devereaux, he said only, “I found them a mile or so from the Gate.”

  “I will drop you in Grosvenor Street,” Mr. Devereaux offered, as St. Tarval moved over, and laid the damp driving cape over the trunk.

  As soon as they reached the end of the street, Mr. Devereaux said, “By rights I should wait upon you in form, but if you will permit me a liberty—”

  “By all means,” the marquess said, tipping his hat, and ignoring the water that dripped off the brim.

  “My request is simple: that you honor me with your permission to court your sister.”

  St. Tarval had not had much experience, but he had seen that exchange on the doorstep. Remembering the happiness he had seen so plainly in his sister’s face, he said everything that was proper, adding only, “If I am not mistaken, you will not have long to wait for your answer.”

  Mr. Devereaux smiled and thanked him, and there the conversation ended. The marquess’s own situation was too vexatious to permit him as much joy as he wished to be feeling; he found himself hoping that Kit’s path would be less torturous than his own.

  They turned into Grosvenor Street, and Mr. Devereaux let the marquess down before his house. He then drove around to the stable, appreciating the fact that his horses were no worse for wear. The marquess was indeed an excellent driver.

  Mr. Devereaux had, in the course of waiting, gleaned some odd details from his sister’s chatter, determining him upon a course of action by the time the marquess returned with the missing ladies.

  He was methodical in his actions, and he had had plenty of time to reflect. He was invited to most events in town, few of which he chose to attend. But that night he surprised his hostess by arriving at a soiree at which poetry was read.

  Almost immediately he spotted a familiar blond head framed by absurdly high shirt-points. Mr. Devereaux took a seat, and gave every evidence of enjoying the poetic offerings, clapping idly after each. When all had taken their turn, the party broke up for refreshments. Mr. Devereaux contrived to fall into conversation with Mr. Aston, guiding the conversation through the storm to the day’s outing.

  He discovered two things: that Mr. Aston had indeed been at the picnic, but he and his friend Mr. Nolan had driven away when the rain hit, there only being room for two in his curricle. As they were first to depart, he had not seen the others, but he drew a vivid picture of a mass exodus as the storm struck.

  “Redding only had a gig, though anyone could have told him we’d run into weather,” Mr. Aston said.

  “Redding,” Mr. Devereaux repeated.

  “Old friend of Sir Henry’s, I understand. ’t any rate, Miss Bouldeston had invited him especially.”

  “I trust the gentleman did not take a chill,” Mr. Devereaux said only, departing soon after.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The next morning, Mr. Devereaux strolled around to visit his old friend Sir George Buckley, whose breakfasts were justly famed. There he found a number of old friends, for people had the habit of dropping in to share pastry and gossip.

  Lady Buckley, as always, practiced her wit upon the foibles of their fellows, to the appreciation of all gathered there. Many names were mentioned as recent gossip was told over, but Mr. Redding’s was not among them, nor were those of Miss Clarissa Harlowe or Lady Catherine Decourcey.

  Mr. Devereaux departed, satisfied that whatever had occurred—or to put it with a higher probability—did not occur was not going to be noised about, and so his wish to drive around and choke the life out of Redding must give way.

  o0o

  In Brook Street, there was far less satisfaction. The disastrous picnic was already forgotten in the face of Amelia’s storm of tears. She refused to come down to breakfast—refused to come out of her room—was threatening to stay there forever.

  When Clarissa and Kitty came down at last, and asked what was amiss, Eliza rolled her eyes skyward. “She and Charlie-says disagreed.”

  Clarissa exchanged a startled look with her step-mother, who sighed. “I had better go speak to Lady Badgerwood,” she murmured. “I thought those two were making a match of it.”

  “Never believed Amelia would make a parson’s wife,” Lord Chadwick said as he walked to the sideboard to load his plate.

  “Let me speak to her,” Clarissa said.

  “I’m afraid if she does not attend the masquerade it will cause talk,” Lady Chadwick said. “This is going to be the event of the season.”

  Clarissa went upstairs, and scratched on the door.

  “Go away!” came the tearful voice.

  “It is I,” Clarissa said.

  There was no answer, but a few moments later the key turned in the lock.

  Clarissa walked in as Amelia flung herself back into her bed, her tear-streaked face distraught.

  “What happened, dear?” Clarissa said, sitting down on the side of the bed.

  “It was last night. We were at the Athertons’ for dinner, and after, Melissa wanted to read from Delphine, which had arrived that morning, straight from France. But no one wanted to listen to her reading in French, and you know I don’t really know but a few words, so I suggested we read Tempest, for I had more good things to say, from Lady Kitty. We began, and it was all very fine, but then Charlie asked me what I thought.”

  “He was not listening before? I do not understand.”

  Amelia stirred, plucking at the sheets. “He asked what I thought, instead of what you thought, or Lady Catherine thought, or Miss Gill thought. I said I told him what I thought, and he took the seat next to mine, and said, Amelia, it seems you are bringing clever things to say from everyone’s minds but your own. What am I to make of that? What did I say or do that caused you to think I want to hear this wealth of literary insight from your friends?” Amelia sniffed. “He sounded so sad, too, as if I had done something wrong!”

  “You had not,” Clarissa said. “Unless you were presenting everyone’s ideas as yours.”

  “But they were mine! That is, when you—Lady Kitty—even Mr. Devereaux, one afternoon, when you all explained, I agreed! And so those thoughts were now mine.” She choked on a sob, and reached for her handkerchief.

  Clarissa picked it up from the bedside table and handed it to her.

  Amelia wiped her eyes. “I told him I did it all for him—and I do—and he said... Charlie, that is, Mr. DuLac, the evil beast, said that he would do anything for me, and I said, then you may offer me a ring. I said I would love nothing more than to announce our impending marriage to my friends at the masquerade ball. For we were alone in
the room right then, the others having gone off somewhere else. He dared to say he liked me very well, but he had no thought of marriage right away, he thought I understood that, and if I truly liked him as much as he liked me, then he hoped I might consider waiting until I am twenty, but he would quite understand if I did not wish to consider myself bound so young. Twenty!”

  She wailed the last word, then collapsed on her pillow, sobbing. Clarissa rubbed her back, trying not to smile; the urge was more bitter than sweet.

  Amelia gasped and turned over, glaring. “I told him he was a heartless, selfish coxcomb, and I never wanted to see him again, and I ran back home. You were already asleep by then,” she added tearfully. Then she scowled. “And so I do not want to go to this masquerade, though maybe I should, because Mary Yallonde thought my Queen of Hearts gown was Marie Antoinette on the way to the tumbril, and I would very much like to be Marie Antoinette, I might even tie a red ribbon round my neck. Except even if I do, what will that avail if I see Charlie—Mr. DuLac—making up to Mary Yallonde, or Jane Pembroke, or anyone else? And what avail if everyone I know, including that stupid Lucasta Bouldeston, will be announcing their engagement before we all go home for summer?”

  Clarissa had shuddered at the idea of the red ribbon, but she forbore to speak about it. “You must do what you think best,” she said. “For you are a grown lady now.”

  Amelia made a gesture of repudiation, but the words, simple as they were, did have an effect. She sat up, sniffing. “What would you do?”

  Clarissa’s smile was rueful. “I would go on as if nothing happened. I would permit no man to see how much I suffered. If he is truly a coxcomb, he would enjoy seeing how much power he has over you, but if he is not, he would be hurt.”

  “I want him to be hurt.”

  “Do you really?”

  “It is so horrid, Clarissa, you cannot conceive. Waiting until I am twenty? Why so old? Mama was scarcely eighteen when she married Papa, and Hetty was exactly my age!”